


Trial

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [32]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.  -Lucius Annaeus Seneca</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Betabetabeta awesomeness credit to Norcumi, Writestufflee, & Merry Amelie!
> 
> +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
> 
> I am way behind on comments, but there is college. I am sort of remembering how to college. I'll catch up soon.

 

Republic Date 5201: 4/24th

The Jedi Temple, Coruscant

 

“I have good news!”

Tahl lowered her datapad and eyed the gray-haired Healer with the sourest expression she could manage. “Unless you are about to tell me that it’s time for childbirth, I will do my absolute best to break your skull open with this datapad.”

Ra’suul glanced at Micah, who shrugged. “She’s got good aim.”

The Healer smiled. “Fortunately for me, that is exactly what I came to say. You’re on the verge of circulatory distress. At this point, the consensus is that surgery is safer for both of you.”

Ra’suul ducked out of the room after promising to return shortly. Tahl blew out a long breath, feeling elation and apprehension in equal measure. There was no earthly way she could safely go through with a vaginal birth, not with her body so stressed, but the prospect of surgery would never be appealing.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Micah said, patting her hand before laying his head against her stomach. “You hear that, Kicky Pants? Your mother gets to be awake for this one.”

The baby’s response was to wriggle around, turning circles in her womb. How that was possible at this juncture, Tahl had _no_ idea. There was so little room left in her cramped abdomen that she couldn’t even breathe properly unless she slept sitting up.

 _Soon,_ she sent, touching the active mind in her womb. _Relax. You can squirm all you like once you get out._

Maybe her own anxiety colored her words, because the baby did not act reassured. Tahl couldn’t really blame him. The squirming increased; Micah took a baby kick to the face that left him with a sappy smile.

Ra’suul returned, accompanied by Jale Terza and Tahl’s midwife, Sharris Gee. Gee was on loan from the private hospital in the Senate District, and had become one of Tahl’s favorite people in short order—and not only because Gee was going to remove a too-large baby from her body. “We don’t see many births here, let alone difficult ones,” Ra’suul had explained two weeks before. “Best to have yet another expert on hand, especially with…your…”

“Genetics,” Tahl had said in a flat voice. She was unamused by dithering, particularly when the limit of her activity was capped at walking to the ’fresher and back.

“Are you ready?” Sharris asked now, a wide smile on her broad, dark brown face.

“I will wheel this bed myself if need be,” Tahl retorted, which made Terza and the midwife laugh. Ra’suul was less amused, but he’d also managed to earn most of Tahl’s threats over the past two months, and would be happy to see the back of her once the birthing was over.

The epidural was cold. Tahl made a face, nerves turning to a sharp mixture of dismay and relief as she lost feeling from the ribcage down. “That’s normal, right?”

Sharris nodded. “That’s to make sure you don’t kick me in the face during the birth,” she said, which made Micah snicker. Tahl relaxed, a little bit. The humor, the refusal to treat Tahl as a patient in dire distress, was part of the reason why she liked the midwife.

Terza hung a sheet just high enough so that Tahl wouldn’t be able to watch her own surgery. Honestly, that was a bit disappointing. “I’m not squeamish,” she complained.

“No, but he is,” Terza said, pointing at Micah. “I’d like him to remain conscious for the birth of this child.”

Micah scowled. “That only happened once, Jale.”

“And no one has forgotten it,” Ra’suul said, a smile finally gracing his pinched features. He went behind the curtain to assist Terza and Sharris. “That’s what happens when a Combat Master faints at the sight of blood.”

“It was my own blood, and there was a _lot_ of it,” Micah groused. “I almost bled to death on your floor.”

Tahl was about to wonder if they were going to begin any time soon when she felt warmth spread out along her stomach. “Oh!” she squeaked, and eyed Micah. He nodded, his grip on her hand tightening almost to the point of pain. It had been a long nine months, the latter half fraught with insane difficulties…and it was still a month too early for a Noorian baby to be born. Tahl wanted the pregnancy to be over with as much as she was frightened for her little boy’s health and future.

There was a lot of tugging down below—at one point Tahl lifted her head, because it felt like someone was trying to remove her ribcage. “Sorry,” Sharris said, voice muffled. “He’s a stubborn bugger. He doesn’t want to come out!”

“Most of them don’t,” Terza said in a dry voice. “Some days I think they have the right idea, too.”

“All right, last pull,” Sharris said, and Tahl found herself holding her breath. Given Micah’s complete stillness, she thought he was, also. Then the baby gave a great, angry wail, and Tahl let her head fall back as relief surged through her body.

“Now that’s a hell of a shriek.” Micah had a huge grin on his face. “He’s gorgeous, dearheart.”

“That’s the cry of a full-term baby, is what that is,” Sharris said. “What do you think, Jale?”

“Fifty-eight centimeters and…five point four kilograms,” Terza replied, as Tahl began to develop severe annoyance that everyone could see the baby but her. “He’s definitely got lungs, Sharris.”

“Noorian size but human gestation,” Ra’suul murmured. Tahl heard him enter the data with speedy taps of his fingers. “That’s very interesting. I honestly thought it would be the reverse.”

“Excuse me,” Tahl said in a loud voice. “I’m glad you’re all fascinated, but I want to see my child!”

“We’re just getting him cleaned off,” Terza replied. “He’s on the high end of the developmental and cognitive scale, Tahl.”

That gave Tahl another warm flush of relief. “He’ll need no special treatment?”

“Not a bit,” Terza said, and then walked around the curtain to deposit a small bundle into Tahl’s arms.

Tahl looked down and saw reddened skin and tiny, tiny features that were still undoubtedly reminiscent of his father’s. Then the baby opened his eyes, and Tahl smiled. She could feel his recognition, his sense of safety and security.

“Hello, dearheart,” Tahl whispered, staring into eyes striped blue and silver. Her own mother’s eyes had been that color. “I’m your mother.”

The baby’s response was to yawn and stick his fingers into his mouth, gumming his fingertips. He kept looking back at her, though. Tahl didn’t need to hear her son’s midichlorian count to know that he was extremely Force-sensitive.

Micah presented one of his solid, callused fingers. The baby wasted no time in grabbing hold with his free hand, flexing his grip and making a burbling sound.

“All right, I’ve almost got you sutured up,” Sharris said, gaining Tahl’s attention. “Given how much stress you’ve been under, I went the old-fashioned route. You have dissolvable stitches instead of laser sealing, but we’ve packed each layer with bacta—that’ll speed up the healing process nicely. Normally, I’d tell you to get your butt out of bed the moment the anesthesia wore off, but I’m not taking any chances. Rest in bed tonight, enjoy the glory of peeing via catheter, and we’ll see about getting you up sometime tomorrow morning.”

“There is nothing glorious about peeing via catheter,” Tahl muttered. Micah grinned, himself the object of far too many necessary catheterizations.

Terza came back, draping a cloth over Micah’s shoulder before picking up the baby. Tahl’s son made a disgruntled face, but tolerated his removal, especially since it meant being placed in his father’s arms. “Let’s go teach your father how to make formula,” Terza said, touching the end of the baby’s nose with the gentlest tap of her finger. “Your mother is not up to feeding you right now.”

Tahl grimaced. Her breasts had been larger than she preferred since her thirteenth birthday. The idea of them becoming larger in the coming days was not a pleasant concept.

Sometime after Micah’s departure, the surgery, birth, stress relief, and anesthesia combined to make her take an impromptu nap. Tahl woke up back in her private room in the Ward. Garen and Bant were clustered around Micah. Tahl’s Lifemate was perched on the edge of a chair while feeding the baby, looking both proud and like he desperately wanted to shoo his audience away.

Tahl smiled. The opportunity was too good to resist. “That’s the second child you’ve fathered who is going to look a lot like you.”

Micah’s eyes widened; his eyebrows tried to climb his forehead and depart. “Er—”

Garen burst out laughing. “Aw, that was mean, Master Tahl. It was _really_ well-timed, though.”

“I thought so, too,” Tahl said, while Bant looked back and forth between them and in puzzlement. “Seriously, though. You could have told me you were Garen’s father the moment he was Knighted.”

“Oh, I see,” Bant said at last, while Garen kept laughing and Micah continued to look like a crècheling caught in an act of terrible mischief. “I was sort of wondering about that, too.”

Micah switched the baby to his opposite arm, and managed to stop sputtering. “How long have you known? _Both_ of you?”

“A few years,” Tahl admitted, while Garen grinned and Bant shook her head. “We lived with you and Garen, Micah,” she said. Both of them shared the same eye, hair, and skin color, let alone the faint similarity in their features, but for Tahl, it was their _behavior_ that had been the real tell.   “It was sort of hard not to notice, after a time.”

“I said nothing because I thought it was…” Bant hesitated. “Hmm. Awkward for you? Or perhaps it was meant to be quiet, considering the Order’s restriction against close relations sharing any sort of training relationship.”

“That is the story I want to hear.” Tahl pointed at Micah. “How did you get around the restriction?”

“Because I had no damned idea he was my kid until I took Garen before the Council, who proceeded to bitch me out for being so daring before they realized that no one had _told_ me,” Micah said, starting to smile. “Baby’s first story time, then.”

“Now that’s going to set a terrible precedent,” Garen said, taking his half-brother into his arms. “Mine now.”

“Temporarily,” Micah agreed. “Don’t forget the burp cloth, or those tunics will never be the same.” Bant snickered and helped Garen get the towel into place.

“Well. Once upon a time, when Mace Windu was still a Knight and Depa was an awkward, long-limbed shadow of a Padawan, I met a woman named Soffia Muln in…Force, I can’t remember which club,” Micah said. Tahl lifted an eyebrow. She had been _very_ familiar with Micah’s lack of discretion when it came to his appreciation for all things feminine. “We found a room, enjoyed each other’s company with no inclination towards a relationship, and went on our merry way.”

“Except that my mother had mucked up her own birth control,” Garen said, giving the baby a gentle pat that released a burp, but not his first meal. Tahl approved, but wryly thought that she would be wearing most of those wet disasters. “And…well, even though she was of age, Soffia was enjoying her status of Coruscant socialite. Can’t tarnish that pristine and virginal reputation, after all.”

Bant made a sympathetic noise. “She makes no claim on you at all, does she?”

“She’s a complete twit.” Garen’s expression said that he was being kind in his description of his biological mother. “That’s not necessary, anyway. I have you guys.”

“Anyway.” Micah resumed his tale, though a glimmer in his eye and an echo through their Lifebond told Tahl all she needed to know about Soffia Muln’s character. “Soffia gave birth and handed Garen over to the crèche almost before his umbilical cord was cut. There was a complete Healers’ Ward clusterfuck in process at that time—remember when Terza took over from Hoq’wi?”

Tahl nodded. “Disaster,” she murmured.

“Yeah, that’s…really, that’s being kind.” Micah shrugged. “It was so bad that Terza was still finding lost records ten years after the fact. Thus, I was not notified, and Garen and I spent almost thirteen years completely unaware of each other’s existence.”

“I was so damned happy when the Combat Master decided I was worth apprenticing,” Garen said, smiling. “Okay, terrified is probably the better term, but it was still a hell of a thing. Then we go before the Council, who have a collective conniption fit. Let me tell you, that was _not_ the most reassuring thing in the world for a kid who was all set to go to the Piloting Corps for lack of potential.”

“After Master T’un stopped screeching and actually _listened_ to us, it was a lot easier to convince them that we hadn’t sought each other for familial reasons,” Micah said. “The Force made it pretty damn clear that Garen was supposed to be my Padawan. It didn’t mutter a damn thing about Garen being my kid. Once Yoda was in our corner, we managed to get the exception granted.”

“Of course, that exception included, ‘Don’t you fuckin’ dare tell anyone, this is a terrible precedent, and we are being very gracious in not throwing you both out of the room.’” Garen juggled the baby in his arms, who responded by yawning and going to sleep.

That looked like an excellent idea, as far as Tahl was concerned. She held out her arms, accepting the warm, sleeping bundle, and allowed Bant to fuss over them both to tuck them in properly for a nap.

Tahl woke up and panicked, because the weight of her son was missing from her arms. She looked up and found Qui-Gon where Micah had been sitting before, holding the baby and feeding him yet another bottle of formula. They were the only ones left in the room; the stirred eddies in the Force suggested that the others had left in a hurry.

“He woke up long before you did.” Qui-Gon’s voice was soft, in deference to newborn hearing. “Given that Sharris is threatening castration to anyone who keeps you from recovering, I thought it best if the young one ate sooner rather than later.”

Tahl gazed at him, considering his posture and the lines around his eyes. He was not projecting anything that would attract her son’s attention, but Tahl knew Qui-Gon very well. He was not there for the baby, though he would normally be the first to share in her happiness. “What’s happened?”

“There was an incident in the Cathedral,” Qui-Gon told her. He lifted the baby, despite the mumbled protest at the removal of food, and burped him with practiced ease that showed off his long hours in the crèche.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Is…” Qui-Gon hesitated. “Saying he is well would not quite be correct, but he’s all right. One of the Shadows suffered a psychotic break, one that was part of a repeating pattern that had, to our great regret, gone overlooked. There are casualties.”

Tahl watched as the baby, truly awake now, grabbed onto handfuls of Qui-Gon’s sun-bronzed hair. “You’ll both be going out, yes?”

“Yes. Micah is with the Reconciliation Council now, getting up to speed.” Qui-Gon smiled down at the baby. “His eyes are beautiful. Have you decided upon his name, yet?”

It had taken Tahl and Micah a long, frustrating time to settle on a name. Tahl wanted elegance without ostentation, whereas Micah just wanted something that would be easy for everyone to pronounce. Tahl countered that nicknames existed for a reason. They’d managed to agree that certain contributions should be honored, at least.

“His name is Benjjai.”

Qui-Gon glanced up at her in surprise. “Really?”

Tahl smiled. “Neither of us are blind, Qui-Gon Jinn. Micah and I are well aware of the fact that this child would not exist if not for the two of you.”

“Obi-Wan will be honored,” Qui-Gon said, re-wrapping Benjjai in his snug bundle with perfect folds that Tahl despaired of ever figuring out.

“You mean embarrassed.”

“That, too,” Qui-Gon agreed.

“And what about you?” Tahl asked, giving him a pointed look.

Qui-Gon brought Benjjai to her, placed the baby in her arms, and smiled. “I think you’ve given him a terrible honorific for others to stumble over,” he said, but she could feel his delight, and knew he was pleased. “Micah will be back shortly. Garen and Bant have already said they’ll stay with you until he comes back from Entrios, so you’ll have plenty of warm bodies to change diapers.”

“Thank you.” Tahl watched him depart, and turned her attention back to her son. Benjjai was staring up at her with his lovely silver-and-blue striped eyes, giving the slow blink of the contented. “Well, Benjjai Giett. You won’t want for guardians, playmates, and assorted hangers-on, will you?”

Ben pulled his hand free of his blanket and waved it in the air until Tahl offered him her finger. “No more orphans in this family,” Tahl murmured. “One of us is quite enough.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon found his way to the garden the Healers kept for the use of their patients, relieved to find it empty. He sank down onto a bench and hung his head, trying to breathe out terrible, painful tension. He thought he’d hidden most of it from Tahl, or at least done a good job of convincing her that he was not up to discussing it.

There was Benjjai, at least. If this week had needed a bright spot, then a healthy baby was a good damned start.

He tried the commlink, unsurprised when Obi-Wan didn’t answer. It was galling, it was frustrating, and he was going to be hard-pressed not to throttle his Lifemate upon first sight.

 _No,_ he thought, quashing the impulse borne of frustration. He rested his hands on his knees, breathed out, and spent several long minutes regaining his center. He had a dire need to meditate, but there was no time. The Padawans had taken on the burden of scrambling to prepare for the unexpected, additional trip to Entrios, else his frustration would be doubled.

One more time. He input the code, waited for the signal to bounce along hyperspace relays, and all but held his breath. _Please answer me. Please._

“Yes?”

Relief was intense enough that it eroded some of his control. “Obi-Wan!” Not a shout, but not quiet, either.

Qui-Gon heard what sounded like a heartfelt sigh. “Yes. I’m here.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice.”

Venge sounded puzzled. “If you were so concerned, why not check the monitors?”

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon bit his lip against the smile that wanted to form. “You broke the vid feed for your room, as well as the intercom. No one can see a damned thing.”

“Oh.” Venge made a faint sound of amusement. “Looks like I did break everything in the room, after all.”

Qui-Gon raked his hair back away from his face. “Does that include yourself?”

“Little bit.” He heard shifting fabric, and the distinct sound of broken glass. “Nothing that cannot be mended.”

“I—I’m coming out with the Reconciliation Council, as are the Padawans,” Qui-Gon said, when nothing else occurred to him aside from nigh-useless words about Healers and not damaging himself further. He considered it a blasted miracle that Venge’s response to those four deaths had been nothing more than a massive fit of temper and horrific property damage. “It makes more sense to depart for Mortis from there.”

“It does, yes.” Venge paused. “I do not wish to sound…intolerant of your company, but did you need anything else? Now that I can face other people and not risk breaking them, I should see to everyone’s well-being.”

“No,” Qui-Gon admitted. “It’s simply a relief to know that you’re still there.”

There was a long pause. “It is also a relief, to me, that you are too stubborn to know when to give up,” Venge said. “Please ask Master Windu to try not to cram the Cathedral full of sympathetic busy-bodies.”

“I’ll warn him,” Qui-Gon replied, allowing himself a faint smile. “See you soon.”

“Yes.” It was not an emotional declaration, but there was a wealth of promise in that single word.

 

Republic Date 5201: 4/25th

The Cathedral, Entrios

 

“I see you took the liberty of empty halls to test yourself,” Venge said, startling the hell out of the Rishii who emerged from the Chamber of Trial.

Herssella hissed at him in a threat display, talons raised, but caught herself as recognition filtered in. “I did, yes,” she said, her pronunciation more sibilant than usual. “Was that wrong of me?”

“Dangerous, perhaps,” Venge replied, taking in the bedraggled state of Herssella’s feathers. “But not incorrect. Did you learn what you needed?”

She lowered her head. “I learned what I could do with full command of blood magic and Dark sorcery. I wanted to learn even as I watched, horrified, at all it could do. Kenobi, such magics were once used to control entire _armies._ They had no need for Battle Meditation.”

“No, they did not.” Venge eyed her. She was steady, not trembling. The Chamber had given the Knight a harsh dawn trial, but she seemed hale enough. “Are you ready to follow in their footsteps?”

Herssella growled and raked her talons along the floor. “No. I want to understand, but…that control? It is abhorrent. If I ever were to crave minions, I would not want soulless puppets.”

Venge laughed, which made Herssella cock her head in confusion. “For what you have seen and learned, that is the best response I could possibly expect.”

“I suppose it is better than indiscriminate slaughter and blood on the walls,” Herssella granted, beginning to perk up.

“I think we need to test your resolve,” Venge said. He released the wrist catch and pulled a long, black dagger from his right sleeve. He held it out to her, hilt first.

Herssella took it, though with marked hesitation. “Is it poisoned?”

“No. It is currently nothing more than what it appears. No Shillanis, no poison, no traps.” The second thing he pulled forth was a tightly rolled and bound sheet of paper. “I need you to do something for me.”

Herssella tucked the dagger into her belt and unrolled the paper, her eyes darting along the glyph pattern underneath. “I thought there were no other Sith spells that could be considered safe.”

“Technically, none are, but remember: We have long spoken of intent, and how it can change the nature of the sacrifice that was made.”

Herssella re-rolled the paper, placing it next to the dagger. “Very well. What is it you wish me to attempt?”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Venge waited until noon before summoning anyone. The remaining Healers needed to sleep after their work, and the others had not gone to bed until late, if at all. It would have been his preference to leave them be, but there was too little time to do what _must_ be done.

Vos still looked like he’d traveled the distance with someone dragging him by the hair. There was brilliant green and black bruising on his chest, revealed by the low collar of his shirt. Tachi was clear-eyed, but there was a hard set to her mouth that Venge had only ever seen in his other-when, during the war.

Abella and Zarin Har stood behind the gathered Shadows. They were not touching, but their auras were mingling in shared comfort. Tholme was not present; he knew what was to be discussed, and had little desire to witness the results. Depa was at the rear of the room, standing alone. She wished to learn, but understood that the other Shadows were not quite ready to embrace her presence.

Venge didn’t bother with greetings. After the previous day, anything he could say felt frivolous—and the Shadows told him by their presence that they were ready to continue, to do what must be done.

He held out his hand, upon which rested a clear glass phial the size of his little finger, capped with a yellow plug. “This is A Drop of Fire.”

Kurri was the first to step forward, despite Vos’s earlier enthusiasm. She took the phial from him and raised it up towards the light, turning the glass from side to side. “I do not actually see anything in here.”

“The dose for three hours of toxicity is almost microscopic. It was easier to turn it into something closer to an aerosol,” Venge explained, as Kurri handed the phial to Gyre for the Sullustan’s inspection. “To take it, you must pop the cap and inhale.”

Skaalka’s pupils narrowed to a thin line as she peered closely at the phial. “What full dose look like?”

Venge reached into the open biohazard container at his side, where the remaining collection of phials were stored. He selected the only orange-capped container, which held an amount of liquid equivalent to a human teardrop. “That is a full dose, which will give the victim six days of Fire to deal with. It has no color, taste, or scent, and can be difficult to discern with the Force unless you are specifically searching for it. Until it is triggered by neurochemical reaction, Fire will seem harmless to your senses.”

“Shit,” Vos muttered, taking that phial from Venge’s fingers. “No wonder she overdosed you. That is damned small.”

“I sense _something_ ,” Tachi said, after she’d accepted the yellow phial from Gyre. “You’re right, it doesn’t seem dangerous. Just kind of…there.”

“You should all familiarize yourselves with that distinctive impression of Fire,” Venge said, and held out the case for the Shadows to choose their own phials. “Yellow caps only. Do _not_ pop the cap unless you’re willing to experience Fire’s effects.”

Greegor shook his head. “Study, yes.”

“Experience, no,” Breegin finished. “I’m already pissed off at Dravaco. Pouring fuel onto that seems like a stupid idea.”

Venge picked up the single red-capped phial, which was half full of clear liquid, and held it between thumb and forefinger. “For those who might be curious, this is what twenty doses looks like. It was an honest mistake on Zan Arbor’s part,” he said, studying the toxin. “Once I realized what she had done, I was more or less prepared for a week’s suffering. Then I found her laboratory notes.”

Vos snorted. “Huh. I had wondered what that specific explosion was for.”

“Quite.” Venge replaced the phial in the biohazard kit. “No one is to take a full dose, let alone the insanity encapsulated by twenty doses.”

“I guess we’re low on time,” Grierseer said. She had selected a phial; despite yesterday’s declaration, he could no longer discern what path she would choose.

Venge nodded. “Representatives from the High Council and the Reconciliation Council will be arriving tomorrow evening, both as a review of your progress…and for Healer Su’um-Va’s pyre. I would prefer no one else be suffering from Fire for either event.”

“What about their mother?” Tachi asked. “Master Vastra.”

“Master Vastra has declined attendance.” The Corellian matriarch of the Vastra line had been more specific in her communique; she had felt the death of her children, and had no need to witness their funeral. Despite the polite words, there had been a wealth of pain in her few sentences.

Depa Billaba was holding her own phial, a pinched set to her mouth. “What can we expect?”

“The original toxin only activated when the victim felt anger, but Zan Arbor’s redesign of Fire will work the first time you have any sort of emotional response.” Venge paused, trying to figure out how best to explain. He remembered very little of those first few moments. “It will begin with shortened temper, a stronger inclination to be angry about anything and everything. At first, those reactions will be controllable. After a short time, it will surge into overdrive. That is when you _must_ learn to cooperate with Fire, to give in to the rage it creates. If you resist, it will push harder. Allow it to push for long enough, and the mind will be overloaded.

“If you allow Fire to break you, you will end up like Fareesi…or like Dravaco.” He had once thought that Fareesi had been felled by something else, but then, he had not yet known of Fire’s return.

“Does it hurt?” Fa’an asked. “I do not fear discomfort, but there is little you have told us of the Sith that does not incorporate pain on some level.”

Venge considered Fa’an’s question. Variations in pain were not something he often contemplated. “It will hurt more than Force Lightning,” he said. “Less than Force Drain.”

 _Less than ripping out your core self_ , he thought. It certainly hurt less than watching your intended Lifemate die in front of you.

“He snapped a Class-4 security restraint when Zan Arbor dosed him,” Vos said in a dry voice. “You know, the cuffs we reserve for Wookiees, Trandoshans, and crazy people.”

“So, it hurts really fucking bad,” Fa’an said, unamused.

“Essentially,” Venge agreed.

Herssella snapped her beak. “Is this mandatory, now? Or do we still have a choice on whether or not we will endure Fire, as you are?”

“It is not mandatory, no. However, those who wish to do this will not need to subject themselves to the Chamber afterwards. If you undergo Fire and still do not understand the nature of your own anger, there will be little that anyone can do to teach you otherwise.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Siri peered through the doorway, but didn’t go in. “I’ve changed my mind. Gimme.”

Venge made an amused sound and passed over his own cloak. It was far too big for her, leaving her hands covered and fabric dragging on the floor, but it was a nice gesture—and his cloak was _warm_. She hadn’t expected the Chamber in the old commissary to be cold, but it was like standing in front of an industrial refrigeration unit.

She turned back to look at the others, who had gathered to see her inside. Venge nodded once. “We will be here when you return.”

Siri glanced at Kurri, whose single eye was glowing a brilliant, baleful yellow. Kurri was the first of the four volunteers who had chosen to experience Fire. Except for some horrendous, gods-awful screaming at the beginning, it didn’t seem to be all that bad. “How’re you doing?”

The Cerean Master spoke in a low growl. “I wish to bite everything I fucking see. How much longer does this last?”

“You’ve got two hours left,” Gyre said, after glancing at the flex-strip at his wrist.

“Fuck! This is intolerable,” Kurri spat, whirling and departing in a flurry of electrical sparks. For someone who’d been terrified of lightning until just recently, she sure did seem intent on frying everything around her.

“Will go play lightning catch with Kurri,” Skaalka said, pausing long enough to give Siri a reassuring—if _hard_ —pat on the shoulder. “You be fine. Kick ass, Shadow Knight.”

Siri swallowed. “Thanks, Skaalka,” she whispered, and then ducked into the Chamber before her resolve failed.

It was as cold inside as the doorway promised. Siri also knew it shouldn’t have been, so she suspected that the ice was just for her.

 _Obi-Wan does the ice bit,_ she realized, and snuggled deeper into her borrowed cloak. _Ice is for loss._

 _Ice will keep the grief from becoming rage,_ the room agreed, speaking to her in the voice of a small boy. _But ice will freeze the heart if left too long in place._

“Is that what happened to Venge?” Siri asked, turning in a slow circle. The room was definitely in full Chamber mode; there was no sign of the chairs and tables that had been left inside the commissary. She saw nothing, really—just fathomless gray mist.

 _Eventually,_ the boy said. _One loss did not ensure ceaseless ice, nor two, or three, or ten. Thousands of losses, however…even Jedi cannot stand for long in the face of such pain when there seems to be nothing left to reach for. That is when the Well seems bottomless._

“Is that what you think is going to happen to me?” Siri asked, wondering what sort of Well the voice was referring to. She’d practically heard the capitalization, which meant it was important…or one hell of a metaphor.

_Is your grief ice, or is it fire?_

Siri realized she was weeping. She wanted her Suva, but there was nothing left, no lingering presence. It was stupid, but it really hurt, knowing he hadn’t grasped onto her nearly as much as she’d cleaved to him.

_The ice can happen to anyone, even to you. Grief can turn to bitterness, bitterness to despair._

Siri shook her head. “I don’t understand. I thought—I expected cruelty here. You just seem…helpful.”

She could sense dark humor, though it was not concentrated in any one place. _I only speak the truth. Those who fear the truth are weak; those who hear the truth and accept it are strong._

“And what am I? Strong, or weak?”

_Su’um-Va did not love you._

It felt like being hit in the chest with a block of ice. “Yes, he did.”

_No. He did not._

Siri drew in a pained breath. “Liar,” she whispered.

 _I only speak the truth,_ the boy said in a mocking voice.

Siri struggled against more tears, and then thought, _fuck it_ , and let them pour freely from her eyes, blurring her vision. The mist didn’t change all that much, just got watery.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that her situation was a frightening mirror to Kenobi’s. Not yesterday, and not now.

“Even if he didn’t…” Siri swallowed. “Even if he didn’t love me, I still know that Suva _liked_ me. He wasn’t stupid, or a pushover. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t have put up with me if I wasn’t somewhat tolerable.”

_There were very few who believed your intentions were pure._

That roused her temper. “Then they’re fucking morons,” Siri retorted. She knew she had a reputation in certain circles. Humans were supposed to be decorous, sexually discreet, and largely monogamous—at least if you were a Core-raised blithering idiot.

“You want truth?” Siri dashed tears from her eyes with her cloak sleeve and sniffed. “The truth is that I loved Su’um-Va. I loved his protective damned sibling as much as I wanted to stab her in the teeth for doubting me. I love Edari, and Kylie, and Geff, and every single person I’ve ever been with. Even if they don’t love me back, it doesn’t change how I feel. My feelings are _mine,_ and you can go get fucking stuffed!”

 _Now that is anger channeled in the right direction,_ the boy said approvingly.

“Damn straight,” Siri grumbled.

_I hope you remember this lesson when I am your Padawan._

“Padawan—what?” Siri took a step back, looking around wildly. There was still nothing to see. “Wait!”

“Siri.”

Siri whirled around and punched Su’um-Va in the chest. Her fist impacted solid flesh, but there was a telltale blue glow surrounding his body.

“You fucking idiot!” she yelled. “What the fuck were you doing, running straight at a maniac with a lightsaber?”

Su’um-Va captured her fist before she could hit him a second time, ducking his head to press a kiss to her cold-reddened knuckles. “My job, dearheart.”

“I’m going to find your training Master and ask him if he taught you to run into battle _ahead_ of your armed escorts,” Siri told him, unashamed when more tears formed and fell.

Su’um-Va smiled. His gray eyes were shining with their own pale light, ethereal and beautiful. “The Chamber always tells the truth, you know. However, you should consider the tense in which that bratling spoke.”

Siri scowled back. “He said you did not—” She caught it, then, and was stunned to the core.

Her voice broke. ‘“Did not,’” she whispered. “Not ‘does not.’”

“My baggage doesn’t look so heavy on this side of the veil.” Su’um-Va kissed her forehead. “Alas, that I was not this intelligent while still living.”

It was the best and worst sort of confession. “You damned ass. What the hell am I going to do without you?”

Su’um-Va raised an eyebrow. “The same thing you would be doing if we’d never met.”

“Shut up.” Siri stepped forward and rested her head against his chest, releasing a choked breath when his arms went around her. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“You love freely, without fear,” Su’um-Va murmured against her hair. “Keep that truth close to your heart, and never let someone take that strength away from you.”

“I won’t.”

Su’um-Va stepped back, just out of her reach, and smiled. “I love you,” he said, and vanished.

The mist went with him. Siri bit her lip against a sob she refused to voice.

Outside, everyone was still waiting in the hall except for Kurri and Skaalka. Tholme and Master Depa were standing with Venge. Vos was grinning fit to crack his face in half, the twerp.

It was still a jolt when all the assembled Shadows bowed to her, the respect granted to an equal. It wasn’t hard to guess what was going on, but it was Venge who spoke the words in a soft, formal voice.

“Congratulations, Knight Tachi.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Ni-Dia Kurri pressed her hand against her forehead and groaned. “This is the worst hangover I believe I’ve ever had.” It was taking quite a bit of willpower to resist hitting herself in the skull, or bashing her face against the tabletop—anything to bring on some form of respite! Not even the Healers’ repertoire of pain killers had made a dent in the terrible migraine that had blossomed the moment Fire was done.

She opened her eyes and lowered her hand to find Venge regarding her from across the table. “That is not reassuring at all,” he said.

“I didn’t think it would be,” Ni-Dia said, and sighed in pleasure as hot green tea appeared before her, brought by Greegor Bo. “Bless you, dear.” She took a sip, and politely ignored the Bothan Healer who was testing her vital signs for the fourth time in the last five minutes.

Healer Abella sat down next to Venge. “If she feels so awful from a three-hour dose, I think we should plan for systemic collapse,” she said.

“Adrenaline?” Venge asked, glancing at the Chitanook from the corner of his eye.

Abella snorted. “Yes, an epinephrine injection. A very large one.”

“Please allow me to remain unconscious for that,” Venge said, and turned his attention back to Ni-Dia. “You did well. You seem to have quite the affinity for lightning, now.”

Ni-Dia smiled ruefully. “I think I understand why Sith resort to Force Lightning so often. It’s nice to have a long-distance melee weapon, and it was…” She trailed off. “Fun” was the wrong word, not when Fire had disallowed her access to any emotion not directly related to rage. Still, there had been a certain pleasure in the act.

Venge nodded. “I understand.”

“How was it?” Tholme asked as he joined them. She could recall him asking the question before, during Fire, but not what answer she’d given.

“It was…violent,” Ni-Dia said, thinking back on the last three hours. “Intense. I do not think I have ever felt such anger, but I also believe it was not as terrible as it could have been.”

“Ah.” Zarin Har sat up, yet another small phial of her blood captured in his furred hands. “Instead of your binary brain enhancing the effect, it diminished it?”

“Diminished?” Ni-Dia shook her head. “Regulated it, perhaps. I did not feel the need to commit near as much property destruction as our instructor.”

“Would you do it again?” Tachi asked. The young Knight had been silent since her new title was granted, but there was now a somber maturity in her eyes. Ni-Dia would have been happier to see it if that growth had not been based upon the sharp pain of loss.

“Not by choice. I found the entire experience exhausting.” Ni-Dia took a sip of her cooling tea and found it acceptable, if strong. Breegin was the better tea-maker, but he was meditating in preparation for his turn in the Chamber of Trial. Greegor was pretending not to be nervous about his twin’s entry by making tea for everyone present, and perhaps even for those who were not.

“The beginning was the worst part,” Ni-Dia said. “There were several minutes when I feared I wouldn’t be able to do as Kenobi instructed. I’ve fought not to employ anger for most of my life, and it was a struggle to incorporate rather than reject. I believe those who have trained in techniques such as the _vaapad_ may fare better.”

“Shit,” Vos said, and pushed his braided hair away from his face. “I need to do them both.”

Tholme sat up in alarm. “Padawan—”

Vos cut him off by holding up one hand. “No, look. Hear me out. That Chamber—it draws things out, makes you see every part of yourself, right?”

“If that is what it sees as required, yes,” Venge said.

“It’s not subtle about it, either,” Tachi added quietly.

“Right.” Vos’s expression turned grim. “I’ve felt this anger my whole damned life, and all the meditation in the world has never gotten me closer to figuring out where it comes from. I think it’s a better idea to know what the hell I’m angry about before I snort a toxin that’s going to make me want to spew rage all over the rest of you. If I’m going to be pissed, I want to know _why_.” He paused, and then scowled. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Ni-Dia turned her head to find a wide smile on Tholme’s face, an expression at odds with his usual brusque personality. “I am allowed to be as proud of my Padawan as I please.”

Vos’s answering grin was crooked and full of mischief. “Yeah, but you know it terrifies everyone when you smile, Master. Best keep that weapon under wraps and save it for when it’s useful.”

Tachi’s expression went from amused to disturbed. “Uh…Skaalka?”

Ni-Dia looked up to find Skaalka approaching. There was a newly confident step in the Trandoshan Master’s stride. There was also a red ring of gore around her lips.

“What in the Force happened to you?” Vos asked, turning in his chair to stare at Skaalka.

“She went into the Chamber,” Venge said. He appeared largely unconcerned, but was eyeing the blood with a curious glimmer in his amber eyes.

“Yes, inside Chamber,” Skaalka said. Her eyes were too wide; the horizontal pupils were blown open, making her pale yellow eyes appear as solid black.

Vos gestured around his own mouth in a circle. “What, er…?”

Skaalka grinned, revealing sharp teeth that were just as gore-stained as her scales. “Saw thing in Chamber. Thing me—angry me, Wookiee-hunter. Not good.”

“I take it you had a disagreement with this figment,” Ni-Dia surmised.

“Not-me,” Skaalka said, nodding. “Never _me_ , but answer wrong. _Is_ me. Must accept. In Dosh tongue, _to eat_ is to accept.”

Tachi made a faint gagging noise and looked a bit pale. Ni-Dia heartily agreed with the sentiment—she expected many things from her compatriots, but self-cannibalism had never occurred to her.

Venge tilted his head. After a long pause, he said, “Well, that’s efficient.”

Skaalka laughed. “Accepted all things. Part of me. Strong Shadow. Good Master. Like hit things, not hurt things, but life pain.” She swatted Vos on the back hard enough that he flinched. “You next. I get dessert!”

Tholme waited until Skaalka was studying the dessert cart with interest, disturbing the serving droids with her apparent lack of mealtime hygiene. “Padawan, please do not eat any doppelgangers you might encounter.”

“Not even an issue,” Vos said. Kurri did not think she was imagining the green tint to his skin. “I was doing great until she mentioned dessert.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Breegin came out of the Chamber sobbing his damned eyes out, which didn’t help Quinlan’s nerves much. The Ho’Din stumbled straight into his brother’s baffled embrace.

“What happened?” Kurri asked, gazing at the pair in concern.

“He is a twin,” Venge said, which caused Quinlan an internal flinch. He hadn’t even considered that—stupid, considering yesterday’s loss of the Vastra Healers.

Venge was studying the Bo twins with detached curiosity. “It is always harder to face a trial when you are clinging to the arrogance of believing that the losses will never be your own.”

Greegor sighed and swatted his brother upside the head. “Idiot,” he said in a sad, fond voice.

“Shut up,” Breegin retorted without lifting his head. “You’re just as idiotic as me.”

“Yeah.” Greegor looked up at Quinlan. “Try to come out in better shape, huh?”

“Anyone got any better encouragement than that?” Quinlan asked.

Tachi shrugged. “Try not to blow anything up?”

Quinlan sighed. “Man, you guys are a barrel of laughs.” He stripped off his plastine gloves, dropped them on the floor by the door, and walked inside before he could hesitate further.

The Chamber did not waste time. Quinlan stepped into a room that was not the blood-red commissary he remembered, but blue-toned durasteel walls. Thin strips of green light ran along the walls near the floor.

 _In case of blackouts,_ he thought, and had no idea how he knew that.

When nothing else happened, Quinlan gave in to the inevitable and placed his fingertips on the wall. Images assaulted him; Kiffar men and women in uniform walked back and forth across the blue-walled space. Some were paying attention to datapads, but most walked in pairs, speaking with each other. He couldn’t make out most of the words, but “Vos” rang out loud and clear, several times.

“That’s interesting.” Quinlan sensed the passage of time with each sequential appearance. He walked forward without lifting his fingertips from the wall, watching the progression of ghostly impressions until a familiar figure appeared.

 _Good ol’ great-aunt Tinté,_ Quinlan thought. He’d never cared for the acting Sheyf of Kiffu, especially after his great-uncle Kirlan had been poisoned. No charges were ever filed against her, but Quinlan would put every credit he had on Tinté being responsible.

Tinté looked younger, though not by much. It was hard to judge, since the woman had managed to look old and spite-filled by her sixth decade, and now she was somewhere near the one-twenty mark. Quinlan guessed he was witnessing something that had occurred at least twenty years ago, if the changes in Guard uniform were any indication.

Unlike the others, Tinté’s conversation with her companion, a Kiffar man that Quinlan recognized but couldn’t place, was easy to hear. “Has it been arranged?” she asked. The sound of her voice alone was enough to give him a deep sense of unease.

“This is a damned foolish idea,” her companion said. “The Jedi aren’t just going to hand that boy over to you. Once they get their hooks in, the Order never lets go.”

“Nonsense,” Tinté replied, waving off the man’s concern. “Those bonds are still weak, and I will soon be the closest blood kin he has.”

The man bit back what looked like a heated retort. “The only reason I’m supporting you in this endeavor is because it will solve our difficulties with the Anzati.”

Tinté’s smile was sweet and rotten. “The only reason you are supporting me in this endeavor is because you think you will take my place as Chief Guardian once I am Sheyf.”

“Which is why I think it will be more effective if you toss Kirlan Vos to those Anzati cultists. Killing him will win you leadership of our worlds. Killing Quian and Pethros will earn you nothing more than Jedi enmity.”

Killing Quian and Pethros.

His mother and father had been killed by a rogue group of Anzati when Quinlan was a child. Quinlan didn’t remember it—he’d been too young. Their deaths were listed as a homicide, yes, but a conspiracy? No, that had never once been mentioned.

Quian and Pethros.

_Mom! Dad!_

Quinlan didn’t drop his hand. He didn’t notice when the figment of Tinté and chief Guardian Roofto Kas vanished, to be replaced by unknown Kiffar in pursuit of their duties. He was inside his own head, swamped by memories that had lain dormant for two decades.

The wrinkle-faced old woman, the one who smelled bad and made Quinlan want to be anywhere else, was dragging him along. His parents were dead—he knew it, he’d _felt_ it.

Tinté shoved a round medallion into his hands. Quinlan shrieked and dropped it the moment the images started. It was Mom’s, and he knew where it had last been.

She snarled at him and shoved it back into his hands.

_Read it, boy!_

_I don’t want to! It hurts!_ he shouted back. _Master!_

 _Your Master isn’t coming back! He’s left you to your family, as well he should!_ Tinté uncurled his hand with unstoppable strength and forced his father’s Guardian medallion into it. _Read it! Clutch it in your hand, and tell me what you see!_

He could hear the high-pitched screaming of a small boy. The sound went on and on, and not even Tinté’s threats and open-handed slaps could stop it.

Quinlan screamed; he saw his parents dying in agony, over and over again. He screamed because his mother’s last conscious sight in the world was of Tinté’s victorious smile, her last thought one of bitter recognition that her aunt had betrayed them. He screamed because his father had watched his beloved wife die while he was helpless to stop it. Every second of every bit of their agony was in Quinlan’s head.

The screaming had not stopped until Quinlan realized he was safe in Tholme’s arms, and Kiffu was far behind them. Tholme had said he was not safe at home. Tholme said it was better for Quinlan’s training to take place on Coruscant.

Tholme might not have known what Tinté had done, but he had suspected.

_I need an heir, boy. Learn to hate! It is the only strength that you will ever need._

“Huh,” Quinlan said aloud. His throat was raw, his jaw aching. His hands had been clenched into fists for so long that his joints creaked when he flexed his fingers.

He picked up the nearest red chair and flung it at the wall, heartened when it shattered into pieces. He caught the fleeting image of a human eating something raw, but it was easy to ignore. The second chair went in the opposite direction, splintering and crashing as it fell.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Venge looked down at the broken bits of furniture starting to pile up outside the Chamber doorway. “You really should have told him.”

Tholme sighed. “That scum-sucking maggot masquerading as a Kiffar woman tortured my six-year-old Padawan until his mind almost broke. What should I have said to him?”

Venge reached out and pulled Tachi out of the way as a table came sailing out of the Chamber. It slammed against the wall and split down the middle, joining the heap of debris in two separate pieces. Depa shook her head and levitated the worst of the mess out of the way, clearing a footpath in the hall.

“I hope MonMassa didn’t want that furniture back,” Fa’an muttered, and then said, “Do you think he’s coming out of there any time soon?”

“Better he gets it out of his system,” Venge said, and then looked at Tholme. “Even a hint of your suspicions about Tinté would have garnered better results than this.”

“I was glad Quinlan had forgotten it, Kenobi.” Tholme winced when a chair struck the wall, broke, and joined the table. “In hindsight, it might not have been the best decision I ever made. I just…I had long hoped that the source of Quinlan’s anger was unrelated to Tinté Vos. It seems that it was a fool’s hope, after all.”

Vos appeared in the doorway before Venge could respond. The Knight was grim-faced and shadow-eyed. Scratches marked his bare arms and hands, each of them welling up with traces of blood.

“Did you get tired of breaking things?” Depa asked.

Vos shrugged. “Ran out of furniture,” he said in a roughened voice. He looked at Tholme. “Did you know?”

“I suspected,” Tholme stressed. There was sympathy for his Padawan shining in his eyes, but severity, too, and strength of will. “But no, I did not know for certain. My focus was devoted to protecting you, in getting you the hell away from Kiffu, not in pursuing an investigation against a malicious, dried-up bitch.”

Vos snorted. “Fair enough. Hey, is it still Dark if I pay an assassin to shoot her in the face, or is that kind of a gray thing?”

“Seem impersonal,” Skaalka rumbled. “Also, cost money.” She was leaning against the wall with Gyre for company. The other Shadows, except for Grierseer, had hidden themselves along the hall in both directions, in case Vos emerged from the Chamber with more than minor property destruction in mind.

Several things clicked into place, elements of separate reports Venge had read years ago. “Someone assassinated Sheyf Tinté Vos during the war.”

“I think I know who your assassin was, too.” Vos rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. “Fuck. The room didn’t even need to show me that option for me to know it was a bad damned idea. I need to stay the hell away from that woman. I like being sane.”

“Did you see it?” Tholme asked, hesitant.

Vos nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw it happen. It was…it was pretty bad.”

“I’m sorry,” Tholme said, sounding grieved. “No child should have to see their parents die in such a fashion, let alone be forced to relive it from their perspective.”

“I do not think you will be experiencing Fire.” Venge tilted his head when Vos looked at him in confusion. “Not until you have had time to come to terms with what you have learned today.”

Vos sighed. “I’m with you on that one. I think Fire would be yet another stupid damned idea right now.”

Depa stepped forward and embraced Vos. “You are many, many things, my friend, but you are _not_ foolish.”

There was a moment where Vos didn’t seem to know how to respond, before he relaxed against her. “Yeah, well. Evidence suggests otherwise, some days.”

“I am so sorry, Quinlan,” Depa said, which was enough to break through the last of Vos’s shock. He pressed his face against her shoulder and gave vent to a keening wail that sounded like the ghosts of a thousand Sith.

“Hells,” Tholme murmured, and joined them, wrapping his arms around Vos and Depa and nearly causing Depa to disappear under the folds of his cloak.

Greegor popped into existence next to Venge, regarding the tableau with an expression that was equal parts disgust and concern. “Dammit, man! I told you to come out of there in better shape than Breegin, not worse!”

“Hey, fuck you,” Vos retorted in a strangled voice. Venge heard as much humor in the sound as distress, which was a relief. He wanted no more broken Shadows, nor lost friends.

Venge hid himself in the Force and slipped away from the group, granting Vos some modicum of privacy. He returned to the Posh Line corridor, pondering the notion of adding an extension to the rough tunnel that connected Posh to the Left Strip.

He’d removed the illusion that kept his quarters from view, but not the shielding built into the walls. The moment he stepped through the doorway, it was like being slammed full-body with fierce, grieving hatred. The temperature in the room had spiked; it felt like walking into a blast furnace.

“I am sorry,” Grierseer whispered. She was seated on the floor in the center of the room, and when she lifted her head to look at him, her eyes were bright gold, leaking silvery tears. “I can’t help it.”

“It is…all right,” Venge managed after tightening his shields. The rage was thick in the air, almost as powerful as the miasma that Sidious created with his very presence. He stripped off his cloak and tossed it aside. “Are you...?”

“Still sane,” Grierseer said, and returned her gaze to the floor. “I thought I would have trouble with my empathic projection, but this is…this is terrifying, Kenobi.”

“That is why I told you to stay in a shielded room.” Venge sat down on the floor opposite Grierseer. His rooms were clean, now that the droids had finished clearing out the detritus from his explosion of temper, but he saw no need to replace anything that was lost. It was less of a temptation to break it all anew.

“Thank you, for letting me stay here,” Grierseer said. “I know that you value your privacy.”

“I do,” Venge agreed, “but I can spare three hours for a friend. Speaking of the time—you have one hour and thirty-six minutes remaining, if the dose remains biologically consistent.”

Despite the fall of her tangled pink hair, he could see a faint smile on her face. “Not long, then. I can bear it.”

“Would you like me to stay here until it is done?”

Grierseer glanced at him again without lifting her head. “I think you should.”

“If you like,” Venge said, and settled himself more comfortably. Then, for the first time, he deliberately called upon the ice. The veins of white spread out in all directions, climbing up the walls and causing the temperature in the room to return to something approaching normal.

Grierseer released a long, relieved sigh. “Thank you, but…how are you doing that?”

Venge regarded the runners of ice. “People often think that rage is the most powerful of the Dark emotions. Rage burns hot; it feels like sparks in your chest and fire in your gut. But loss and despair entwined with hatred—learn to channel that, and you have the clarity of thought, the focus of will, to do terrible things.”

“Will you still be a Jedi, when Fire is done with you?” Grierseer asked.

“Will you?” Venge countered.

Grierseer laced her fingers together and squeezed until her knuckles silvered. “I…believe so. This anger—it is mine, but it’s not _of_ me. Fire created it. It is educational to find that I am capable of such rage, but there is nothing in my head to fuel it when this is over.”

“And what of Yuri?”

Grierseer’s brow furrowed. “I do not hate Yuri. I am…disappointed, that he could not be stronger, that Master Wyr could not be a better teacher. It grieves me that a good man and two esteemed Healers are lost to us because of what Yuri and Wyr wrought, but hatred of the dead serves no purpose.”

“My anger and hatred, my grief—they are not constructs,” Venge said, watching the amber light fade from Grierseer’s eyes. “Those emotions were within me before Fire, and yet, I was a Jedi. I will still be a Jedi when this is over.”

Grierseer raised her head and gave him a baffled look. “Kenobi?”

Venge glanced at the flex-comm’s chrono readout. “One hour and thirty minutes exactly. Interesting.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, rising from the floor after he stood up.

 _Nothing,_ Venge thought. _Or everything._ Anger and hope flared; he did his best to quash them both. “It means you will be gifting the Healers with your presence, Knight Grierseer.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Depa stared down at the tiny phial in her hand. It fit neatly into the natural crevice of her palm, an innocuous bit of glass that held one of the worst poisons she had ever learned of.

“You do not have to, you know.”

She looked up to find Venge regarding her, expressionless and flat-eyed. It was not disdain, but his attempt at shielding the true extent of what he felt. She was grateful that he was doing his best to keep from influencing her decision, but her decision had been made the moment he’d presented his Shadows with those tiny samples.

What worried her—worried Tholme and the Healers too, though they would not discuss it with her—was that Venge’s speech patterns had gone precise, too perfect, after yesterday’s events. Depa had become used to more and more hints of Obi-Wan in his voice. She thought, hoped, that it was grief that drove the change, and not some terrible new influence of Fire.

“I’m going to try an experiment,” Depa said. “If it goes badly, you will…”

“I will make sure that you bring no harm, Depa Billaba.” Venge’s words were steel and promise.

Depa nodded, relieved. After the incident in the Chamber, she knew what her potential for mayhem could be, and never wanted to see it achieved. “I wish to attempt to channel Fire from the very beginning,” she told Venge, who cocked his head, his interest caught. “Will you perform the third kata of the _vaapad_ with me?”

“Lightsabers?”

“No.” Depa shook her head. That was a temptation that neither of them needed. There was peace between them, but she knew it would be an uneasy one until it was Obi-Wan she faced, not Venge. “Open-handed, please.”

Venge was smiling, the predatory expression that had so alarmed her at the beginning. “I have been told that I hit very hard.”

“Not nearly as hard as Skaalka,” Depa returned, which made his smile widen. That was more of a reassurance than she’d once thought it could be, especially when she could feel numerous eyes upon them from differing points in the cathedral. Some of the Shadows were hidden, some were not.

It was a mark of his forgiveness that Tholme was standing witness. Quinlan had also elected not to join the counter-measure group. Master Kurri stood with them, as well. She was leaning heavily against her staff, still drained by her own dance with Fire.

Before Depa could become unnerved by their observers, she popped the yellow cap from the phial and inhaled the vapor that emerged. She felt nothing, at first; if she hadn’t been warned that it was normal, she would have wondered if the phial had lost its contents.

Instead of waiting for the next stage, she assumed the first pose of the kata, bowing her head but not lowering her gaze. “I’m ready.”

He had no sooner settled into the opening stance when Depa struck out, sliding into the first movement. She’d done this with Mace numerous times, long before they had ever raised lightsabers against each other. It was easy to adjust her stride, to be certain that her hand contacted his.

Depa gritted her teeth at the impact, her hand stinging and bones thrumming. He did, indeed, hit hard. As if it was a signal, Fire at last flared up, the first twinges of pain teasing her nerves. She let it, allowing her anger to flow, directing it smoothly into the second, third, and fourth moves of the kata. Venge met her for every exchange, until her hands were numb and her ears were ringing from the force of their blows.

Her eyes were burning. Depa blinked, but the burn did not ease. Venge noticed her confusion and nodded once, letting her know without words that the burn of her anger, the amber yellow of Fire and corruption, had shown itself in her eyes.

It felt incredible. It felt _terrible._ Depa gasped and then clamped her mouth shut as Venge led them out of the kata and into an open-handed spar. It was a better conduit for the energy that rushed through her veins, burning with as much intensity as the flames behind her eyes.

Venge smiled as their speed increased. She felt a dark joy uncurl itself, fierce and unrelenting. The pleasure of it increased tenfold when she landed a particularly well-delivered blow to his face. Venge’s only response was to laugh and fight back, which made her nerves light up in a tingling, hot wave.

Gods, it was almost like foreplay. Depa was very grateful that her tastes had always run towards the feminine, because neither of them needed that sort of complication.

Venge’s closed fist rammed into her chest, just under her collarbone and close to the hard edge of her shoulder. Depa let the force of the blow carry her, spinning around on her feet in a graceful twirl, turning potential injury into sinuous recovery. She lifted her hands back into guard position and stepped forward.

“Stop,” Venge said, holding up his hand.

Depa went still, nerves and senses screaming. It was a terrible strain to halt the kata. The anger wished her to press the advantage, to aim for the next strike, sensing weakness, sensing _opportunity_.

She breathed all of that out. She could—she would ride this wave. She would not let Fire rule her. “What is it?” she asked, forming the words with effort. If he shared that difficulty, it would explain the clipped, formal nature of Venge’s speech.

“Something—” Venge frowned, shaking his head once. “Something’s wrong,” he said. The headshake repeated, more of a jerk than any practiced motion.

 _Force_ , Depa thought, striding forward. She must have appeared threatening; Siri Tachi decloaked right next to her, giving Depa a wary look. “Healers,” Depa told her in a low voice. “Right now.”

“Fuck!” Tachi spat, and vanished again.

Depa drew close and took Venge into her arms. “Sit down,” she ordered, her voice harsh.

She’d missed the window of opportunity, perhaps by seconds. Venge did not sit so much as collapse, a fall that Depa guided, her strength augmented by Fire and the Force. She wound up sitting on the floor with her legs curled beneath her, allowing Venge’s head to rest against her breast. Restraint without restriction, a concept she was long used to. It amused her—she was in the best place to render assistance at the right time, and it was her own foolishness that had made it so.

“He’s seizing,” Depa said to Tholme, sensing his approach. Later, she would be horrified, recognizing the implications of the event. For now, it was merely one more task to perform while the toxin burned in her system.

“Dammit,” Tholme cursed in a low voice. “How bad?”

“Not yet.” Depa waited until Healer Abella appeared alone, and approved of the Healers’ good sense. There was a distinct possibility that this could be disastrous for Venge’s self-control, and keeping Zarin Har on stand-by was sensible.

“Not the worst kind of seizure,” Depa explained, for Tholme and the Healer’s benefit both. She could feel muscles jerking beneath her arms. His limbs were not flailing, but she could sense it as a future possibility. “But not a kind one, either.”

Abella swore under her breath before resting the pads of her furred hands against Venge’s head. “Was there a trigger?”

“Aside from what he endures?” Depa offered the Healer a slow, derogatory blink. Oh, she understood those predatory looks now, oh so well. “No. He had enough time to recognize that something was not right, but the window was short. Perhaps thirty seconds between recognition and loss of mental awareness.”

Abella gave her an appraising look, uncowed by Depa’s stare. “You’ve had experience with seizures?”

“Linena has suffered from seizures since childhood, ones that the Temple Healers have never quite been able to dispatch.” Depa resettled her arms, unbothered by the repeated pattern of spasms, or the terrible rasping breath. His airway was clear, if stressed. “I am well-versed in the signs.”

Abella lifted her hands away. “There isn’t much I can do about this,” she said, not bothering to mask her frustration. “I could do more harm than good, trying to nudge things back into place.”

Depa nodded; she’d heard the same words during the worst of some of Linena’s seizures, though for different reasons. It was dangerous to play with the electrical currents of the brain even at the best of times, and Fire…she suspected Fire would increase the difficulty tenfold.

“You’re all right to hold him?”

Depa raised an eyebrow. “I would not otherwise be doing so. I suggest, however, that it is you who remains to speak to him as the seizure wears off. He will likely react better to your voice than to mine.”

“And you are also all right, physically? Mentally?” Tholme asked Depa. He had definitely warmed to her. She could feel Fire’s glee at the thought—it would be so easy to take advantage of situations such as these, demonstrating good will in the form of care for her allies.

Depa shook her head. “I am…not right, but I am not suffering. I believe the _vaapad_ may be a very good counter for Fire, if the opportunity to use it presents itself immediately after being poisoned. It does not diminish the emotional aspect, but I felt very little pain.”

“Good to know,” Quinlan said. He was close, but not close enough to make her feel trapped, and she appreciated his recognition of Depa’s need for space. The Healer was too close, but that could not be avoided; Tholme was one step too far into her spatial awareness, but requesting he step back would alter the pattern being established.

 _Stop that,_ she told herself. Manipulation of others to suit her own ends—there was a theme she should have been meditating upon already. Fire did not cause that negative trait, only made it worse.

“The seizure is ending,” Depa announced, as spasms became twitches, as Venge’s breath evened out. “You should speak to him, Healer.” She considered the length of the seizure. “He should regain conscious awareness in three minutes. If the period is longer, a more thorough evaluation will be necessary.”

Abella’s eyes flashed in annoyance at Depa’s last statement, but ignored it in favor of speaking to Venge. “Obi-Wan. Hey, you need to look at me. All right? You’re okay, and there is no need to blow anything up. Also, try not to set me on fire, okay, Obi-Wan? Yes, that’s right, I’m warning you in advance that I’m not in the mood to wear more bandages.”

Depa let out an amused breath as the Healer continued in that vein. She could not see Venge’s eyes, but could tell by the motions of his head that he was struggling to focus on the Healer. Linena had so often expressed frustration after her seizures. She could hear and understand Depa, once the worst of the spasms ended, but the ability to focus, to respond, took longer to restore itself.

Depa had a very good internal clock. At two minutes, fifty-eight seconds, Venge let loose a ragged sigh. “Fuck,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Is that what I think it was?”

“Seizure, yes,” Abella told him, taking his hand. She must have been checking his vital signs, but it was surreptitiously done. “It lasted a good…”

“One minute, fifteen seconds,” Depa supplied.

“Plus another three to get you talking again,” Abella finished. “Which is a lot kinder than I would have expected.”

Venge sighed, his limbs jerking once in a way that was not seizure-like. “I can’t—”

“Give it a few minutes,” Abella advised. “You just had a damned seizure, Obi-Wan. Sitting up is probably not in your immediate future.”

“I do not mind,” Depa said, when she sensed the nature of his concern. “You, at least, did not drool all over my tunics.” Linena had often lost control, to her intense shame. Depa had not minded then, either.

That earned her a flash of unshielded anger. “What a relief,” he muttered, snide. “Fuck. Fuck, dammit, fucking _hells._ ”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with your ability to swear,” Tholme said in a dry voice.

Venge turned his head enough to be able to look up at him, though his eyes were still trying their best not to cooperate. “It’s _too fucking soon,_ ” he hissed. Rage, frustration, complete and utter defeat—all of these struck Depa full on, filtering into the Living Force.

Fire roared up, teasing, and Depa knew she was at the end of her endurance for sitting still. She pushed Venge upright, her hands as gentle as she could make them. Abella nodded and took over the task of keeping him stable via Force manipulation. She suspected Venge appreciated the gesture as much as it galled him.

“I have to…” Words failed Depa.

Venge looked at her in complete understanding. “Go.”

Depa retreated, roaming the Cathedral while being tracked by watchful, invisible eyes. She found the raw tunnel mouth at the end of the Left Strip and entered it. Venge had been contemplating an extension to the Central Corridor. She could, at least, put the remaining burn of Fire to good use.

Later, she found him in the office, the first place they had met to discuss her failure. Fire was gone, leaving exhaustion in its wake…and terrible recognition.

“Why did you say it was too soon?”

Venge was leaning back in the chair behind the desk, his booted feet propped up on the desktop. His gaze was focused on the bookshelf, the one filled with some of the more esoteric Healing treatises Depa had ever seen. She knew without asking that the books had belonged to the Vastra twins.

At her question, his amber eyes flickered over to her. “The Healers and I had discussed the possibility of seizures. The mind can only be pushed so far before it starts to…misfire.” His lips quirked, as if in recognition of the inadvertent pun. “But it was a matter of vital importance that I get to the third month without suffering them.”

Depa understood immediately. “They’re going to get worse.”

“Significantly, and quickly,” Venge said. His air of frustration was almost palpable, as well as that terrible sense of looming defeat.

“Perhaps it would be best to invoke the bacta option now, instead of waiting until the eighteenth of the next month,” Depa suggested. Force, it was still a full twenty-one days until the third month of his poisoning.

One of the ever present tea mugs cracked and fell apart in four distinct pieces. Venge made a face. “Sorry. That’s been…happening a lot this evening.”

“Obi-Wan?”

“Tkee,” Venge said instead, a word that made no sense until Depa heard the click of an intercom switching on.

“Tkee shipped out with Master MonMassa and the Reconciliation Council, Master Kenobi,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”

Venge sighed. “Tkee in the Cathedral. That’s all I need. Fuck.” He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and rubbed his forehead. “Porin, disable the recording devices in this room for the next five minutes.”

“Er—sir, I don’t think that’s—”

“Knight Reese.” Venge’s voice was cutting ice. “This is not negotiable. What I am about to tell Master Billaba _cannot_ go into Council record.”

“If you get me fired, I’m so going to blame you,” Porin Reese replied. “They’re off, and the five minutes is on a timer.”

“I will be discussing the matter with the Master of Shadows. Your job is secure,” Venge said, and then turned his attention back to Depa when the comm clicked off.

Depa felt a sour churn in her stomach. “There is no bacta contingency, is there.”

“Oh, there was,” Venge said, his eyes glittering with bitter amusement. “However, it was dependent on the Vastra twins.”

The sour feeling became a cold curl of foreboding. “There is no one else who can do what needs to be done?”

Venge shrugged. “Yoda could have, perhaps, if he had spent the last two months in my company. Ra’um-Ve was quite firm in her belief that this would require complete and utter familiarity with my mind, and all of Fire’s lovely quirks. Anything else is to risk, at best, severe and irreparable neurological damage. I am not willing to live that way.”

“Stasis?” Depa asked.

He seemed amused. “I’ve been placed in a stasis unit, and I’ve also been frozen in carbonite. Believe me, the latter is the far more preferable option if you wish to retain some form of sanity. Even then, neither are long-term solutions. If Zan Arbor fails to manufacture an antitoxin for Fire, then both methods do nothing more than delay the inevitable.”

“My friend,” Depa whispered. Her heart was breaking for him, and she knew it was audible in her voice.

Venge looked away. “Thank you,” he said, and then seemed to shrug off whatever mood had taken him. “If dreams are to be believed, I do still have a slight chance by visiting a certain planet. If that fails…well. I am not afraid to die, Master Depa. However, I see no need to suffer through the process.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Depa asked, putting her own grief aside. If he was confessing this to her alone, then he had a purpose in mind. Venge did not say things to garner sympathy. He hated the very idea.

“Yes.” Venge pulled a data chip from his belt and regarded it with narrowed eyes. “This is not for you, but for Initiate Jeila Vin. Make a copy; I have a feeling that she is going to do her best to destroy the first chip once she witnesses its contents, but it is an act she will regret.”

Venge floated the chip up and across the desk. Depa took the chip from the air and secured it within her belt pouch. “Immediately, or with a delay?”

“A delay, please.” Venge seemed alarmed by the idea. “This is…if the worst happens, she will need to see this.”

Depa was hard-pressed not to flinch. “This is a farewell message.”

“It is. I am trusting you with it, because others will be…they will have their own grief to contend with.”

Depa frowned. “You’re assuming that I will not?”

“I’m assuming that you will still be capable of doing what needs to be done,” Venge retorted, which mollified her, somewhat. “And there is another thing I am asking of you.”

Depa hesitated only a moment. “Name it.”

“If all things fail, and I am lost, take Jeila as your Padawan when she comes of age.”

Depa reared back, startled by the nature of the request. “I—I’m not certain that’s the best idea.”

“I am.” Venge’s stare was laser-intense. “You have the basis now to become a Jedi Master in truth, not just in Council-granted name. You are aware of the deepest, darkest parts of your psyche, and the terrible path it can lead you down. Jeila Vin will need that kind of guidance for what is to come.”

Her sense of foreboding increased. “What is to come?” _What have you seen?_

Venge’s smile was wry, self-derogatory, and sad. “Let’s just say that I hate how much the Order’s fate seems to hinge on my continued existence.”


End file.
